


Pretty

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: KageHina - Freeform, Kisses, M/M, but literally nothing explicit at all, fluff!! mindless fluff, have i mentioned fluff, i don't even know what to tag there's nothing but softness, it's very pg and fluffy, kageyama is just really pretty okay and hinata is smitten, really brief mentions of implied sexy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7457695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kageyama is pretty. It’s just a fact, something Hinata has grown accustomed, like how Tsukishima is tall and Suga is nice and Tanaka is loud; Kageyama is pretty. He’s never really questioned it, either, because lots of things are pretty - flowers, and sunsets, and his mum when she wears her hair all sleek and straight and lines her lips in red and the point is, pretty isn’t weird at all. </p>
<p>But what is weird, very weird and very not normal and probably very not okay, is the fact that Kageyama is really, really pretty and it makes Hinata want to do things."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been AWOL and useless for like a month and I woke up this morning and thought 'no, no we're getting out of this blocked hell-hole right now' so here is my second fic in a couple of days. It's just...well it's all in the tags. Here u go pls enjoy

Kageyama is pretty. It’s just a fact, something Hinata has grown accustomed to, like how Tsukishima is tall and Suga is nice and Tanaka is loud; Kageyama is pretty. He’s never really questioned it, either, because lots of things are pretty - flowers, and sunsets, and his mum when she wears her hair all sleek and straight and lines her lips in red and the point is, pretty isn’t weird at all. 

But what  _ is _ weird _ ,  _ very weird and very not normal and probably very not okay is the fact that Kageyama is really, really pretty and it makes Hinata want to  _ do  _ things. 

Like, Kageyama has really nice hands. They’re big and the skin is soft even with all the callouses, and his fingers are long and tanned and kind of delicate, like a girl - and Hinata wants to hold them. All the time. He’s imagined it a million times over, on the court and eating his lunch and riding the bus home with Kageyama’s hands in his lap beside him, and he’s imagining it now. In Kageyama’s bedroom, with their homework spread every which way over the floor and Kageyama’s fingers gripping a pencil so tight he might just break it. 

Hinata thinks Kageyama would be good at holding hands. Maybe a little rough because he really doesn’t know his own strength at times, but honestly he thinks he might kind of like that; the tight, strong grip and the squeeze and pinch of those fingers wrapped around his own, and he shouldn’t be thinking about this now at  _ all _ because his English homework is due in two days and he hasn’t even started yet. 

But he just can’t stop thinking about them, not as the night goes on and his homework remains unfinished (which is entirely Kageyama’s fault and not even a little bit his own) and he’s lying on the futon, moonlight squeezing through gaps in the blinds and spilling over Kageyama’s bed. He’s asleep already - which is a miracle, really, because Hinata takes  _ ages _ to fall asleep but Kageyama just has to close his eyes which is stupidly unfair - and those long, thin fingers are curled loose and floppy into his palm. They look soft, gentle like this, and Hinata thinks they’d be nice to hold here, too. 

He does sleep, after a little (long) while, and his dreams are filled with lightly clasped hands, laced fingers and sleepy breathing and the kind of warmth that fills him from crown to toe. 

Kageyama also has really, really pretty hair. 

It’s the first thing Hinata notices when he wakes up. Kageyama’s face is buried nose-down beneath his blanket but Hinata can see the way his hair is fanned over the pillow. It’s kind of spiky in the morning, all mussed and messy from sleeping, but it still looks soft and shiny and Hinata thinks he’d really, really like to touch it. It just looks so  _ smooth _ , like silk, like it’d feel really good to glide his fingers through, to pat and pet and grab and it probably smells good, too, because Kageyama always smells good. 

He wakes with a grunt and a groan, stretches beneath the bedclothes and blinks sleep bleary eyes. 

His  _ eyes _ . 

They’re one of Hinata’s favourite parts, maybe, except for his hands; all big and blue and so deep Hinata thinks he could drown in them, probably. And he wouldn’t even  _ mind _ . Not even a little bit. 

Hinata knows he’s staring, honestly, but he isn’t sure Kageyama has noticed yet. He just can’t help it, you know? Kageyama is so, stupidly pretty, with his big, tired eyes with their big, long lashes and the sight of him freezes the breath in his lungs. 

Kageyama blinks, long and slow and sleepy, and the shadow of his lashes dusts down over his cheeks. 

“Morning,” he says - grumbles, because he  _ hates _ waking up - and he reaches up a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. Hinata tangles his fingers in the front of his shirt -  _ Kageyama’s  _ shirt, because he forgot to bring a spare - and wiggles his toes into the blankets. 

Kageyama’s whole body is pretty, Hinata notes, when Kageyama drags himself from the bed and stretches. He’s all long and lean, muscle and tight, tan skin, and Hinata stares at the line of flesh peeking above the waistband of his pajamas. There’s a trail of dark hair that starts under the hem of his shirt and disappears beneath his pants, and Hinata curls his knees to his chest and presses his mouth to his pillow. 

_ That _ makes him want to do things, too, and they are things he definitely shouldn’t want to do with his best friend. 

He’s got a pretty back, Hinata thinks, when Kageyama turns and drags his shirt over his head. It’s big (so big? He’s got pretty, why does he get to be  _ big  _ too) and broad and he’s grown into the wide line of his shoulders, and Hinata watches the skin glide over the muscles as he moves. It’s  _ unfair _ , really, that Kageyama gets to look so good. 

There’s a big long list of Pretty, for Kageyama, and Hinata thinks on them the entire walk to practice. His nose, and his cheeks, and his jaw and his throat and his collarbones (why? Why, Hinata doesn’t even know, they just look so  _ good _ all the time) and his arms and his thighs and the list is, honestly, somewhere just north of endless. 

But the prettiest part, the part that makes Hinata’s stomach jump right up into his throat and sends his heart plummeting somewhere near his groin, is his mouth. 

It’s the part that causes the most problems, too, because Hinata can’t count the amount of times he’s walked into something, walked into someone, been hit by a stray ball or been hit by a ball that was  _ meant _ to go in his direction, all because he’s been staring at Kageyama’s lips. 

Thing is, Kageyama has this habit, and Hinata doesn’t really know when it started because it’s been going on for so  _ long, _  but Kageyama likes to bite his lip. He does it all the  _ time _ _;_ when he’s thinking hard, mostly, which is always because Kageyama has to think hard about almost everything, but he does it when he’s daydreaming, too, with his chin on his hands and his eyes all glazed over. 

It might not be so bad if he  _ just  _ bit it. Hinata thinks he could probably, maybe ignore that, but Kageyama doesn’t just bite - he licks at it, too. Peeks his tongue out to smooth over the skin, and the combination leaves his mouth red and shiny and swollen, and honestly, it’s almost too much for Hinata to take. 

Thing is, it makes him want to bite it, too. To lick at it, to suck until the skin burns hot and red and puffs up between his teeth. 

He wants to, and he  _ shouldn’t   _ want to at all, but honest truth, it’s all he can think about. 

And it’s becoming a problem. 

* * *

The biggest, most pressing issue is that Hinata can’t catch a break. Kageyama is  _ everywhere _ _;_ he’s at practice, and at lunch, and at evening practice and on the walk to the store to buy meat buns and he’s part of the walk home, too, and then he’s the buzz in Hinata’s phone for the rest of the night and the next day, it starts all over again. It’s impossible to find breathing room when your best friend is someone as beautiful as Kageyama.

The other big, glaring problem is that Kageyama doesn’t seem to know. He doesn’t know that he’s pretty, and he definitely doesn’t know that Hinata  _ thinks _ he’s pretty because if he did he wouldn’t keep torturing him like this. 

It’s one evening when Hinata tells him. Practice had been long and stressful and Hinata missed a million easy spikes and receives because he couldn’t stop staring at the fit of Kageyama’s shorts. It was silly, really, and Hinata rubs the bruise over his forehead and grips the handle of his bike so hard the bones at his knuckles bite into the skin. 

“You were a mess today,” Kageyama says, and Hinata’s cheeks burn red. Even his stupid  _ voice  _ is pretty. “What the hell was wrong with you?” 

“Nothing,” Hinata says. It’s too quick and too quiet, buried in the heat of his face and the lump in his throat. Kageyama is walking too close, all warm and cosy and the dizzying smell of his deodorant has Hinata’s lids fluttering over his eyes. 

Kageyama keeps talking - “If nothing’s wrong then you just suck way more than you’ve ever sucked before.” - but Hinata doesn’t have it in him to listen. He feels hot, stifled and a little sick but there is this pressing need to  _ touch _ , to reach out and grab and smother and Hinata draws to a stop with his eyes trained on his shoes. 

“Oi,” Kageyama starts, and Hinata’s shoulders hitch up to his ears. “Dumbass, why’d you stop?” 

It takes an awful lot of strength to lift his head. Kageyama is standing a few paces ahead and he’s sucking milk through a straw, one hand jammed in his pant pocket and the other fisted around the carton. His brow is all furrowed, skin pinched and twisted so bad Hinata thinks he could probably draw patterns in the creases, and his eyes are stormy and clouded beneath the pull of his brows. It shouldn’t be a good look - it shouldn’t at  _ all _ \- but it is, and it makes Hinata squirm where he stands. 

“Can we get meat buns?” Is all he says. It’s all he  _ can  _ say, under the intensity of Kageyama’s stare and Kageyama huffs, but he nods anyway. 

Hinata trails a little way behind him. It’s easier to cope when he can’t see his face, easier to watch the shift of his back beneath his jacket, the roll of his shoulders and way the fabric of his pants pulls tight and sags loose around his thighs as he walks. It’s way, way easier than trying to look him in the eye. 

There are no bike racks outside the store so Hinata waits on a nearby wall with his bike propped beside him and his heels kicking at the brick. Kageyama takes a while - like, way longer than usual - but Hinata is almost thankful for the break. He spends the time trying his hardest  _ not  _ to think about him; instead he thinks about the weather, about the sun hanging low in the sky and shedding big, long beams of orange and pink and yellow over the town. He thinks about the wind on his skin, and the brick beneath his thighs and the little blades of grass growing up under his fingers. He thinks about the smell of warm, cooked bread sailing out from a back window in the store. Thinks about anything but Kageyama. 

When he finally comes out of the store, Hinata has almost calmed himself down. Almost. 

But then Kageyama strolls through the doors with two bags hanging from one hand and the other still buried in his pocket, and he has this kind of effortless lope to his steps that Hinata rarely ever sees - he’s usually stiff, awkward and gangly and honestly, he’s only really loose like this when they’re alone. Hinata puffs air into his cheeks and holds his breath. 

“Here,” Kageyama says, holds out one of the bags and hops to sit on the wall beside him. Hinata stutters a breath around the smell of him, all mingled in with the smell of bread and meat and something sweet that he can’t quite place. 

It isn’t until he opens the bag and sniffs that he realises what it is. 

“Oi,  _ Stingey-yama! _ ” Hinata waves the bag in front of his face and makes a grab for the one in Kageyama's hand. “This isn’t meat!”

“They only had one meat one left, idiot,” Kageyama says. He tugs the bag out of reach and pushes Hinata’s head out of his personal space. “I got you red bean paste, it’s all they had.” 

Hinata pouts down at the bun. He  _ likes _ red bean, honestly; it’s nice and it’s sweet, but it isn’t the same as meat buns. He pinches the dough between his fingers and crosses his ankles, and casts his eyes to Kageyama. 

He hasn’t started eating yet. He’s just staring at the bag, brows pulled low over his eyes, worrying his lip between his teeth. Hinata’s stomach lurches, hops right up into his mouth, and he catches his bottom lip and bites hard enough to hurt because there’s an ache on his tongue and in his cheeks and right deep down in his chest and he wants  _ badly  _ to nip at Kageyama’s mouth instead. 

He must be staring too long, because next time he blinks Kageyama is looking at him and there’s one steaming half of a meat bun held in the air between them. Hinata takes it - his fingers nudge along Kageyama’s as he does and blood pools over his cheeks - and watches, for a while, as the heat of it blows away on the breeze. 

Kageyama has started eating already, pushing a big bite into his cheek and wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth with a flick of his thumb. Hinata swallows, sticks the bread between his teeth and bites, but his mouth is so horribly dry that it sticks everywhere, softens like paste and glues his tongue to his teeth. 

Kageyama is finished before Hinata has swallowed his first bite. He doesn’t say anything, just watches the skyline in the distance and wipes at his cheeks, and Hinata finishes his half in slow, comfortable silence. 

He splits the red bean bun, too, when he’s finished, and he holds out half (the smaller half, though not by all that much and Hinata thinks Kageyama probably did the same with the meat bun so he doesn’t feel too bad about it) for Kageyama to take. He looks about as bewildered as Hinata had felt, and he takes it with a weird, jerky nod and a thanks that he plugs with a huge chunk of bread. 

He shouldn’t look pretty, shoveling food in his face, and Hinata tries to talk himself out of thinking that he’d still like to kiss him maybe, but honestly this calm, relaxed Kageyama is one of the prettiest versions and Hinata lets himself watch him while they finish eating. 

Something about the warmth and the quiet and the comfort must lull some really, really stupid part of him into a weird, content sense of security. He shoves his hands beneath his thighs, kicks at the wall and sighs out a big, sun-warm breath that drags a few thoughts out with it. 

“You’re really pretty.” 

Kageyama chokes on  _ nothing _ . He coughs, splutters, sucks in a few breaths and his face goes redder than bean paste, all hot and pink from cheek to cheek and over his nose. 

Hinata wants to literally  _ die _ . The wall isn’t high enough to jump from and there’s no oncoming traffic on the road, and Hinata can’t think of much else he could do immediately other than hop on his bike and launch himself off of the mountain path and instead he crumples, curls his knees to his chest and hides the blush on his cheeks and wills time to go backwards. 

“What the hell?” Kageyama says. It feels like it’s been hours of silence, hours of staring at the back of his eyelids and breathing through his thighs, and Hinata peeks over at Kageyama through one side-aimed eye. 

He’s still red, and his face looks all indignant, but he’s chewing on his lip and Hinata bites at his knee to stifle his groan. He shrugs, curls his toes in his shoes. 

“You’re pretty, I guess,” he says. “Like, you look really nice. All the time.” 

“Oh.” 

Hinata hides his face back behind his knees. 

Of all the mistakes he’s ever made in his whole live, ever - and there have been a  _ lot _ \- this is maybe the worst one. Kageyama can’t even look at him, and he can’t look at Kageyama, and everything feels messy and awkward and he feels a little like crying. 

“You’re,” Kageyama starts, and Hinata turns to watch him flounder. His mouth gapes open, closes, and he huffs his fringe out of his face and grabs the hem of his jacket. “You look nice too. I guess.” 

“Oh.” 

Well. Hinata watches the tension in Kageyama’s shoulders, the bubbles of bright white skin over knuckles and the red flushing the tops of his ears, and his whole body fills with something warm and fluid. It drips from his head, dives through his chest and sinks all the way down to his feet, so deep he can feel it in his bones. 

They go home a little after that. They part ways with something strange and heavy between them, but as Hinata rides his bike back over the mountain, he’s never felt lighter. 

* * *

The next time he mentions it is at Kageyama’s house.

It’s wet, horrible weather and the sleepover is thoroughly unplanned. Hinata sits on the futon in one of Kageyama’s jumpers - it’s big, too big, the cuffs falling down over the tips of his fingers and the collar slipping too close to his shoulder - with his hair still dripping from his shower. He can hear the water running across the hall where Kageyama is taking his turn. 

Beyond the window, thunder rumbles through the sky. Hinata isn’t scared of it, not really, but it sets him on edge and he watches the dark clouds for flashes of light through the rain. Drops lash the window in big, heavy sheets, and Hinata drags the spare blanket up onto his lap. It’s warm enough, but the sight of the storm raises goosebumps over the bare skin of his legs. 

The sound of the door startles him, and Hinata whips his gaze from the window to Kageyama, where he stands in the doorway with a towel around his waist and a bundle of damp clothes under his arm. 

He’s still damp, little droplets of water falling from his hair to his shoulders and dripping over his chest, and Hinata watches him add his clothes to Hinata’s soggy pile and turn to his drawers for clean ones. 

“Stop staring,” He says, and Hinata drags his eyes from his back to find Kageyama’s reflection in the mirror. He huffs air into his cheeks and sticks out his tongue, and Kageyama flicks the Hinata in the glass right between the eyes. 

He strips with Hinata’s back to him. He can hear every shuffle of fabric, the dull thud of the towel dropping to the floor and the swish of pants being pulled to his hips, and he only turns around again when Kageyama drops something fluffy and warm atop his head. 

“Dry your hair properly,” he says, even though his is dripping a steady patch onto his shirt, “or you’ll get sick, and you won’t be able to play.” 

Things fall quiet again, after that. Kageyama settles on his bed with a magazine and Hinata is honestly content enough to just watch him; the way his eyes rove over the page, his messy, half-dry hair, the skin he can see dipping beneath the collar of his shirt, the fingers flicking the pages and the tongue lapping at his lip. 

“You’re staring  again .” 

Kageyama’s cheeks are red and Hinata feels his own heating to match, but he doesn’t look away. Instead he shrugs, drags himself to his feet and flops backwards over Kageyama’s back on the bed. 

“Can’t help it,” he says. He can feel the muscles by Kageyama’s spine bunching and tensing as he twists to look over his shoulder. “You look nice.” 

Kageyama sits up, then, and Hinata slides off his back and onto his thighs and he scrambles to sit on the mattress before Kageyama settles back enough to flatten him. 

Hinata sits on his heels and digs his hands between his knees. Kageyama is rearranging, shuffling carefully and quietly until they’re facing one another and Hinata’s mouth goes dry. 

Kageyama swallows. Hinata watches the bob of his throat, trails his eyes down the skin to the hollow by his collar and he follows the line of the bone, out out out until it disappears under the fabric of his shirt. It makes him want to do things, again; to kiss the skin, to lick or bite or...just,  _ something _ , he wants to do  _ something _ so badly it hurts. 

He’s biting his lip, too, chewing it between his teeth and Hinata stares as he lets it go, as blood bubbles back up under the skin and lights it red. It’s swollen, wet and shiny, and Hinata is shuffling forward to catch it before he can stop himself. 

He presses too hard, he knows; shoves his mouth over Kageyama’s enough to hurt his teeth but Kageyama’s lip is in his mouth, and it’s warm and soft and Hinata runs his tongue over it before he can stop himself. His eyes fall closed, tickle over the skin of Kageyama’s cheek and he sighs a breath through his nose, shifts until their knees knock together. 

Kageyama isn’t breathing. He’s still, perfectly so, and Hinata lets him go and drags his head back with a dawning sense of dread. 

What did he  _ do _ ? Why did he do that? Kageyama is going to really, actually kill him, he knows it, and he waits for the death blow with his eyes squeezed shut and his face turned to the side and it comes in the form of soft, searching fingers, of knuckles hooked under his jaw and of lips  pressed over his own. 

Kageyama’s kiss is too hard, too, and he opens his mouth and sighs out a breath right between Hinata’s teeth and it should maybe be a little disgusting, someone else's breath in your mouth, but Hinata’s stomach fizzes and he sucks it in and sighs right back. 

It’s Kageyama that pushes them down onto the bed and it’s Kageyama that settles his weight over him, pushes him into the mattress and slides his tongue up against his teeth.  But it’s Hinata that rucks up Kageyama’s shirt, Hinata that spreads his fingers over warm, forbidden skin, Hinata that maps out the muscles over his back and it’s Hinata that leaves the first mark, drags his nails down Kageyama’s spine and digs little red welts into the skin. 

Kageyama kisses him with an arm braced beneath his head. Hinata can feel the shift of muscles and tendons at the back of his skull as Kageyama’s fingers grasp the sheets beside him and Hinata finds his other hand, links their fingers and he squeezes so hard it hurts. 

* * *

Kageyama is pretty. It’s just a fact, something Hinata has grown accustomed to, like how Tsukishima is tall and Suga is nice and Tanaka is loud; Kageyama is pretty.

But Kageyama is so  _ painfully _   pretty, and Hinata stares at his face where it rests on the pillow beside him, calm and slack with sleep, and he thinks that, even with flowers, and sunsets, and his mum when she wears her hair all sleek and straight and lines her lips in red, Kageyama is maybe the prettiest thing in the whole wide world. 

**Author's Note:**

> ha ha would u look at that more disgusting sweet kisses somebody stop me 
> 
> Anyway this was v cute and fun to write and I think I'm starting to feel a little better about my writing too so that's good!! Thank you to everyone who likes/comments/bookmarks/whatever the hell else you're all so so lovely and u keep me going thank you!! If you wanna talk more haikyuu hell with me hmu on tumblr @ someone-stole-my-shoes 
> 
> (also I totally stole the meat bun/red bean paste bun from Kimi ni Todoke and I'm not even sORRY)


End file.
